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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27987411">Pretending</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken'>thedevilchicken</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Whitechapel (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Barebacking, Gunplay, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threats of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:46:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,778</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27987411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent persuades Chandler to send him undercover. This doesn't go to plan.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joseph Chandler/Emerson Kent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Consent Issues Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pretending</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/gifts">plutonianshores</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The only reason he didn't say <i>stop</i> was because there was a gun in his mouth. </p><p>He hadn't meant for it to happen. He'd meant to be more careful. He'd actually <i>thought</i> he was being careful at the time, but he supposed he must've stuffed up somewhere on the way because there he was, on his hands and knees on a half-threadbare rug instead of making an arrest. There he was with the barrel of a gun pushed in past his lips, past his teeth, and his D.I.'s hands spreading his arse wide open. </p><p>It had started because there was a killer bumping off gay men in the Whitechapel area and someone - Mansell? Riley? didn't really matter after the fact - had jokingly suggested an undercover op, send one of the team in as bait. He'd jumped on it like an eager little dog, always the fucking bootlicker, always a hair's breadth from humping his master's leg. Chandler hadn't been convinced for a start but he talked him round; just a little bit of wheedling (let him prove himself, he wouldn't let him down) and they were on for sending Kent out into the night, pretending he was bent as a nine pound note. </p><p><i>Pretending</i>. Right. He knew exactly how much <i>pretending</i> was involved. Maybe the kids at school had only called him that because it rhymed with <i>Kent</i>, but that didn't mean they'd been too far off the mark. That didn't mean he wasn't fucking besotted with his boss, like this mess hadn't been meant to make him see him in a different light.</p><p>He'd really thought he could do a good job but maybe he hadn't been paying close enough attention because inside the bar, all he'd been able to do was watch Chandler at the other side of the room trying to look inconspicuous. It wasn't the sort of place he'd've taken him out for a drink, not someone like him because he looked out of place and everyone knew it; it wasn't <i>bad</i> out of place, though, because men kept going up to him, sauntering up like they had a chance, and it was dark but he thought he saw him blush. All he could think about as he stood there, not practicing particularly good awareness of where he put his drink, was going over there and making him saying yes to him instead of no. Which was probably why the next thing he knew he was being dragged out of a van and into a cellar. </p><p>He'd been drugged, he supposed. Should've been watching his Coke. Another way he'd fucked this up.</p><p>"Go on, unless you want me to have his head off," the man with the gun said, and he waggled the gun inside Kent's mouth so it clacked against his teeth. </p><p>He couldn't see him. He couldn't really move his head at all because the man was holding the gun steady and it was in almost far enough to gag on, far enough that his jaw ached and it held his tongue down and scraped awkwardly against the roof of his mouth. He didn't know if it was loaded and he thought Chandler probably didn't either because next, Chandler's thumbs rubbed the rim of his hole between his cheeks and he felt himself blushing red like a sodding stop light. He'd fucked up and now his prim and proper guvnor was - oh God, oh <i>God</i> - he was spitting between his cheeks with what was probably all the finesse of Mansell doing a Viennese waltz, slicking him with it as best he could, because the bloke with the gun had told him to fuck him. </p><p>Fuck him or he'd kill him. Probably fuck him and then he'd kill him anyway, Kent thought, wasn't that how it usually went? It wasn't like he'd be letting them go in a hurry now he knew he'd picked up a copper and cornered the one who'd come to rescue him. Some rescue - Chandler had followed them, he supposed, to the cellar of a warehouse about half a mile from the station that they'd converted into flats Kent hadn't been able to afford. He must have followed because Kent had been shoved down semi-conscious onto that tatty old rug, then he was there. He'd gone down like a ton of bricks, jarring his knees and his hips and his elbows and everything else that wasn't too drugged up to feel it, he'd felt his jeans being yanked down around his knees, and then the door had opened and it was Chandler. D.I. Joe Chandler, storming in to save the day, except he'd stumbled into a gunfight without so much as a cutting remark defend himself. </p><p>Chandler rubbed the rim of his hole with the pad of his thumb, slowly, probably awkwardly because he'd probably need to go put his hands on a boil wash with every last shred of clothing he'd got on if and when they got out of this. Kent couldn't move - he was too fucked up from whatever he'd been given and the gun in his mouth that tasted like oil and the smell of crappy waxed coats like Chandler's posh friends probably wore when they walked dogs on their country estates or whatever. Maybe he kept it wrapped up in the same rag he did his coat with and now it was in Kent's mouth, making it hard to swallow, making his tongue curl around the barrel like he could just spit it out if he tried hard enough. He couldn't. Then Chandler pressed the tip of his cock against him. </p><p>The only reason he didn't say <i>stop</i> was because there was a gun in his mouth, but he supposes he did try to say <i>sorry</i>. It didn't come out, at least not as much more than a messed-up sob, and the man laughed and Chandler really, really didn't. When he did was push into him, till Kent was fucking skewered at one end by a firearm that might go off at any second and at the other by Joe Chandler's cock. And he'd've given anything for him to want that, except gunpoint didn't say much about wanting. It said he was willing to stick it in him without so much as a condom on if that would save his life from the arsehole they'd been trying to hard to catch, but it probably wouldn't. </p><p>Chandler fucked him, on their knees on the threadbare rug, while Kent's bare forearms rubbed against it till they burned. He gripped his hips and Kent could feel his teeth against the gun and oh God, he was hard, his cock stiff as a copper's fucking truncheon and bobbing about between his legs with every one of Chandler's breathless thrusts. The bloke laughed again, or maybe he'd never stopped, and Chandler just held onto him tighter, his bare hands hot but not as hot as Kent's bare skin. He fucked him, and Kent loved it, and he hated it, how his arsehole stretched around him, how his heart raced, and he wished the floor would just fucking swallow him up or maybe the gun would just go off and spare him the apologies and the compulsory counselling at work, and Chandler never looking him in the eye again. </p><p>"You're disgusting," the man said. He took the gun from Kent's mouth, all wet from his tongue, and prodded him between the thighs with the muzzle, against his balls; Kent bit his lip and felt his hole pull tight around Chandler's cock, and Chandler gasped. Then he pressed it up against Kent's forehead and he could see it, huge and dark and out of focus, pressing hard, nudging against it so hard it might bruise or just cut him with every one of Chandler's thrusts. Chandler felt huge in him, like he was splitting him open, hot and completely lacking rhythm and and God, he must hate that, Kent thought. Forget the boil-washed hands; he'd be scrubbing his cock raw for a week. </p><p>"You're disgusting," the man said, again, like he was trying to convince himself as much as them. "You fucking disgust me." Then Kent heard the trigger. God, <i>he heard the trigger</i>. And for a second, he closed his eyes, he screwed them shut, his stomach clenched, because he thought that was it, that was absolutely it, he'd be victim number eight or whatever it was by then and in the moment he couldn't remember a single one of their names. Victim number eight with his brains blown out and his clothes torn off, dumped in an alley or the back seat of a parked car so the traffic warden could find him in the morning. And God, oh God, he heard the trigger pull and he came, he fucking came, knees buckling, gasping, shoving back hard onto Chandler's cock. He came all over the rug and, as he passed out, he wasn't sure if it was the relief that he hadn't died that did it or the fact he'd thought he would.</p><p>He doesn't remember much else, not until the hospital. There was a lot of fuss, and beeping, and when he came to there was a uniform he'd never met who came to take his statement while Chandler hovered in the corner like the Ghost of Fuckups Past. He was wearing a clean shirt and his hands looked red, and he kept rubbing his knuckles. He'd probably scrubbed. Kent couldn't help but imagine what other bits of him looked like, but he knew he wasn't going to find out. </p><p>They gave him something to help him sleep, though he was fairly sure he'd had enough of that already. Chandler was still there when he drifted off, loitering as Kent tried to say, "I'm sorry, Guv." Maybe he responded, but probably not.</p><p>And he'd fucked up, yes. He'd made a mess of everything and chances were he'd have to start again somewhere else - maybe he could get a transfer, anywhere he didn't have to see people look at him like all they could think about was what had happened with him and D.I. Chandler. What had happened because he couldn't keep his eyes off him.</p><p>But as he drifted off, all he could think about was the trigger of that gun and the cold-hot flash of it over his skin straight to his balls. All he could think about was the trigger, and the fact that when he'd come, so had Chandler. </p><p>If it hadn't been the worst thing that had ever happened to him, it might just have been the best of all.</p>
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